All Saints Trilogy
by Alixtii
Summary: Three ficlets, one for the Feast of All Hallows, one for the Feast of All Saints, and one for the Feast of All Souls. Faith, Kennedy, Dawn, and Giles many years after "Chosen."
1. Eve of All Hallows

**Cleveland, Ohio—October 31, 2019**

"You've never gone trick-or-treating?"

Madelyn returns Faith's incredulous gaze with a cool stare of her own. When she speaks, her voice is a smooth blend of her mother's American accent, her father's Italian, and Giles' British. (Dawn's accent nowadays is halfway between the American and the British.) "I remember my mother talking about Halloween," Madelyn says, and when she does it is with a soft sadness. Faith hasn't seen her own mother in ages, since she was sixteen to be exact—but to lose one's mother at age six? And to be abandoned by one's father—well, Faith knows _that_ story.

"It's not really a thing in Europe," Madelyn says.

Faith feels sorry for the kid. Which is silly, because if she were to count the ways in which Madelyn's life sucks, "never has gone trick-or-treating" doesn't even make the Top 100. This is a girl who has the fate of the world resting on her shoulders, in ways Buffy wouldn't even have been able to comprehend, and at an age much younger than Buffy or Faith had been called.

But Faith can't bring Buffy back, can't make the Immortal care about his daughter. She can't erase the passages about Madelyn in the Tradescan Codex, can't take away the destiny that fate has seen fit to give the girl. But she damn well can take the girl trick-or-treating, give her at least that much of a semblance of a normal childhood. She looks across the room at Kennedy, who gives a silent nod.

"We're taking the younger girls out tonight to trick-or-treat," Ken says. "You can tag along if you want."

Madelyn's face scrunches up in thought. "I don't have a costume," she says uncertainly, and for that moment she looks like a normal pre-teen girl. It warms Faith's heart.

Faith looks at her watch. "There's still a few hours until sunset," she says. "I'm sure we can throw something together by then."  



	2. Feast of All Saints

**Richmond, England—November 1, 2019**

Giles stood in front of the giant Sunnydale cenotaph. Even when he was gone, the giant monument would remain, the first thing one noticed upon entering the Watcher's Cemetary. They had lost many people in Sunnydale. Anya. Joyce.

Jenny.

He had taken the train into London that morning, stopped at the Council Headquarters to take care of some business, then took the Tube out to the suburbs. He had come alone; Dawn wouldn't understand the significance of the day. But while you could take the Watcher out of the Church of England, you couldn't take the Anglican out of the Watcher.

He continued through the cemetery, stopping at each of the graves of fallen warriors. Kendra. Xander and Willow. Buffy.

The second time Buffy had died, she had gone to Heaven. Not the Judeo-Christian construct, or at least he supposed not, but it was right that she had been rewarded for her service. Now that she was dead once again, having died one more time to protect someone she loved, he refused to believe that she could be anywhere else. They all deserved an afterlife of eternal rewards. It had been his job to make sure that they didn't have to endanger their souls to be heroes. His job, and now Dawn's as well.

"Grant us grace so to follow your blessed Saints in all virtuous and godly living, that we may come to those unspeakable joys, which thou hast prepared for them that unfeignedly love thee, through Jesus Christ our Lord." He felt strange, saying the old Christian prayer, but it felt right somehow.

"Amen."

Giles turned in shock to see Dawn standing behind him. "What are you doing here?" he asked softly.

Dawn's smile was sad as she stepped towards him, took his hand in hers. "I know you better than that, Rupert." 


	3. Feast of All Souls

**Bath, England—November 2, 2019**

Giles wraps his arms around his wife, feels the rising and falling of her chest as she sleeps.

He is sorry it had been necessary to corrupt her. Not by marrying her—he has no regrets there. But Dawn had once been a spritely young child, an innocent. That Dawn is dead, had died so many years ago, over a decade before he had even let himself (before Dawn had forced him to) think of such a union as a possibility.

If he's honest with himself, it happened long before he offered to her the position on the High Council, and it's truly the monks who are at fault, for fashioning a young girl who as the sister of the Slayer could never have a childhood. But they, like he, simply did what was necessary.

When Joyce died, a part of Dawn shriveled up and died. Buffy's death went a little farther, then Tara's, and it was that battle back in Brazil so many years ago that finished the job. Giles wants to hate Ethan for it, but finds that he can't.

He holds Dawn tighter, and she shifts in his arms.

He's seen her kill in cold blood. He's seen her send children to their deaths. He's seen her take the fate of the world upon her shoulders. He's seen her do all the things that he's had to do, but had hoped to have been able to spare her.

He had been able to protect Buffy, Xander, even Willow to some degree. So many of the Slayers. They were able to be heroes, because every black mark on Dawn's and his souls was one that wasn't on theirs.

But now Xander, Willow, and Buffy are all dead, and so many other Slayers lay next to them in the Watcher's Cemetery. Already they had to purchase new land. And Dawn and Giles live on, to send a new generation of Slayers to their deaths.

"You're brooding," Dawn says.

"Shh, love," he whispers. "You're supposed to be asleep."

"So are you," she points out reasonably.

They've both done awful, incredibly terrible things. And they'll keep on doing so, braving the threat of purgatory to win for others their places in heaven.

He breathes in the scent of her hair and lets himself drift into unconsciousness. 


End file.
